Must Be a Dwarf Thing
by Goblin Witch
Summary: Prompt: "So rocks are very important to dwarrows. They pick a special one out for their intended and make it all pretty. Bilbo is extremely confused when Thorin (or someone else) gives him a polished rock. Because rock." Boffins and fluff (as if that ever happens). Written for the Hobbit kinkmeme over on Livejournal.
1. Chapter 1

Ah, but this hobbit was sweet as could be. So gentle; shooing insects from his things rather than squashing them, and taking care not to step on flowers when he could avoid it. Bofur had never seen anybody so concerned with tiny living things (sans Ori, of course).

He wasn't sure how much Mr. Baggins actually enjoyed them, as he shied away from most creepy-crawlies, but took well enough to the chubby green caterpillar Bofur had shown him. The dwarf found himself looking closely at Bilbo's face over the wee beast, the flicker of nostalgia, the wry grin as Bofur declared it "Neekerbreeker", after Bilbo's word for critters. Neekerbreeker? An odd word, to be sure. But if Mr. Baggins was any representation, hobbits were odd.

Though, not in an off-putting way. Oh no. Quite the opposite. He felt his eyes drawn more frequently to the gentle lad, and his ears heating more behind his braids when they talked. Now, Dwarves weren't made to be gentle, born of little growing things as hobbits surely were- Mahal had crafted His race from stone, to work stone. As such, it was a common show of first affections to gift the one you fancied with a... stone. A carefully chosen and polished gift, and presented to show your worthiness to court. The stone was your patience, the work of your hands, your steadfastness through time, your pride in origin. The stone was all. All very dwarvish, thank you very much. So as time passed around Mr. Baggins, and the leap in Bofur's belly never lessened, and the desire to please and protect and praise only grew, Bofur found himself staring down into rocky sand at a lake's shore. It was a long and flat body of water, surrounded by yellow, rocky hills and crooked pines. The sun warmed Bofur's shoulders even behind the clouds, and Oin was behind Gloin, shoving him into the water. They had stopped here for rest and desperately needed bathing, and even the naked, old, furry men all around couldn't lessen the broad smile dimpling Bofur's face as his muscles twitched with nervousness. He would do it, he resolved to the gently lapping water. He would choose his stone today. Now. Now! Yes. Alright. …Yes.

His heart in his throat, he stooped to one knee and began shifting through the clean water. It was warm enough to be pleasant, and the others were too familiar with his personality to take much notice of his naked ass rooting through the rocks. He avoided the thought that Bilbo was naked too, mere yards in the distance, doggedly fighting natural urges. His blushing couldn't be helped, but his mother raised him right, and less subtle physical clues certainly could.

Yellows, browns, black. Not much diversity. He took a few sloshing steps further into the water, searching deeper, but the bank swiftly dropped off and the rocks turned massive, and algae-covered. Bugger. He walked along the shore once more, searching and rummaging, picking up stones and tossing them back. He rounded half the lake, and still nothing drew his eye. He'd never given a stone before- shouldn't it be something remarkable? It seemed like it should. He could have asked Bombur, but he wasn't ready to expose his xenophilia to his baby brother quite yet. Finally, as the others were packing it in and Dori was waving to him, Bofur snatched up a bland, dense, yellow stone, cradling it reverently in his hands like an egg. It was a start.

It was a cool night, filled with the sound of frogs and a merrily cracking fire. The smell of the burning wood wafted about the Company, settling comfortably into their stiff old clothes. Bilbo sat alongside Bifur as the Company settled in for food and song, watching the dwarf's hands for familiar signs as he understood about as much Khuzdul as he did Bird. He had been nervous around the dwarf at first, what with an axe embedded into his face, but once he'd spent a few death defying evenings with him the fellow wasn't half bad. And increased proximity to Bifur directly correlated to increased chances of interaction with Bofur, not that Mr. Baggins had an agenda. Bifur was a fine dwarf, truly.

But, it could not be denied, so was his cousin. Yet Mr. Bofur had been unobtrusive of late, when they made camp for the night. Bilbo had grown accustomed to Bofur bustling about, helping his brother with food or pulling a joke or making himself useful with firewood and the like. Always active. Now he was no less boisterous or loud, but seemed more prone to staring ahead or to the side, his hands folded on his lap. Bilbo couldn't quite place what was off about it.

Which would have been a relief for Bofur to hear. Instead, he scrubbed diligently with the little Horsetail patch- the plant, not the ponies. He was smiled upon enough by the Maker to by surrounded by the stuff on occasion, and nicked a few reeds casually, stuffing them in one of many pockets. That evening under several not-indirectly-curious eyes he'd cut within the internodes of the reed, flattened the rolled-up segments with his fingers, pressed it between two flat rocks and avoided eye contact. There really was little privacy on the road.

And now he had waited a few days for it to dry. It had been nigh agony. He had what he needed to show his soul-shattering affection- drying weeds and a rock in his pocket- but chatted and watched the burglar's grin every day, unable to rub them together and share his dreadful feelings. He could just skip the rock bit, but, Hobbit fancier or not, Bofur was going to do this courting business right. The spoiled dwarves in settled places could just reach into any given cabinet and pull out a tool to use, should they so choose, but oddly enough Bofur felt like it was better this way. He was using something from Bilbo's world- plants and.. stuff- to make a rock from his world beautiful. It was symbolic, really. And not the part with the rubbing one over and over on top of the other. Thus now he scrubbed away with his horsetail patch, as others assumed his motions were toymaking. He kept the farce easily enough, quickly clamping his hands over it when others walked by. This may not have been the most subtle thing in Middle Earth, but Bofur was not a subtle Dwarf by nature and so long as Mr. Baggins didn't catch on, that was fine with him. Raised eyebrows were nothing new to him, and if his courting went well, then, he was sure to have many more. He'd bask in it.

But for the time being, Mr. Baggins had an uncanny habit of turning to look at him while Bofur was staring. Not that he meant to stare at Bilbo, it just happened a lot as he polished his rock. That could have sounded better.

He'd look away quick as lightning, and hope Bilbo hadn't noticed. Yet secretly hope he did. Unless it made him uncomfortable? That's the last thing he wanted! But why was Bilbo glancing at him? This whole business made Bofur's heart rattle like a thrush in the Mithril mine. He polished the rock on watch, he polished the rock beside Bombur in his bedroll. He polished the rock in his pocket, he polished the rock behind trees, he polished the rock IN trees, he polished it when he was supposedly using the loo, he polished it on his way back, he learned that little egg's deepest darkest secrets and swore he'd keep them if it promised to save his heart. Finally, as Bofur burned the midnight oil once more, he leaned back to study his work. The little stone glistened like liquid flame in the campfire light, and he beamed as he held it aloft, turned it this way and that. From calloused and dull to smooth and gleaming, finer than a mirror of diamonds, he thought proudly. If he did say so himself, that is. His eyes traipsed their familiar path to find Bilbo, now deep in sleep with the rest of the Company. His curls gone wild and shaggy, his breath deep and moving with the night. He was so lovely. Beautiful, really. Warmth crawled from his neck to Bofur's face again, for the umpteenth time. What would it be like to sleep beside him _every night_? Bofur doubted he'd be able to sleep at all. He looked to the stone- no, to Bilbo's stone- in his hand, swallowing thickly and his heart lurched. Curling his fingers around the tiny yellow sun he had made, he shakily asked Mahal to bless his courting. Whether this rock was accepted… that remained to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Bofur tried to get his courage up for two days, before he felt he'd reached the precipice of madness.

_So many_ questions and doubts rolled though his mind; an experience wholly new and bloody awful. Bofur was a simple dwarf of simple concerns. He had always been fine rattling off whatever he thought, going with the motion of things, trusting luck and the wind. Being confident. What is there to worry about? he had thought. Every new day was a blossoming bubbly burst of sparkles and happiness and fun-shine and he didn't have to **worry** about his Heart ripping his heart from his chest. About his Love not loving him back. He knew Bilbo enjoyed him perfectly well as a friend but.. What if he ruined everything and made Bilbo uncomfortable with even that companionship?

What if Bilbo wanted somebody else?

What if Bilbo couldn't think of a dwarf that way?

What if Bilbo didn't even like _men_?

Bofur was a nervous wreck by that second evening. Bilbo and Ori were engaged in their usual knitting ritual together, chatting and chuckling in low voices, all clever fingers making neat things, and Bofur couldn't help but pine in the distance. Watching Bilbo's toothy smile, the wrinkles around his witty eyes, the bits of leaves in his gone-insane curly hair Bofur knew he was too far gone. He could throw up on the hobbit's feet from nervousness about it, but Bilbo was his One, and that was that. So in a rush and unable to breathe he stood, and walked over to the pair.

"Do you, you really think he's noticed?" Bilbo quietly asked the youngest of the company, casting off his latest row. Ori purled and smiled in his shy, sly way. "Bilbo, come now, it's the oliphaunt in the dining hall," He continued twirling his stockinette smoothly as he spoke, very familiar with this topic of conversation. "You've shared your food with him, yes?"

"Yes," Bilbo nodded somberly, counting his stitches, "It is the way of my people."

"And he's given you his hat?"

"On multiple occasions," he offered hopefully, casting on the yarn.

"And you're sure you don't want to start this yourself?" Ori glanced up at him, his little voice deceivingly innocent as he raised an eyebrow.

Bilbo nodded securely. "He's always so... so lively and, and open. Surely if he wanted something he'd approach me about it?"

Ori hummed, and was quiet for several stitches, mouth in a thoughtful frown. "Don't look now," he bent closer to Bilbo and whispered conspiratorily, "_But I do believe your miner is looking for a shaft_." Bilbo didn't have the time to splutter properly before Bofur was upon them, clearing his throat just a little too loudly.

"Evenin', lads." He beamed, keeping his voice steady and his eyes less than manic. They chorused their greetings politely, and he breathed, and continued. "I was wonderin' if I might be having a word, with eh, you, Mr. Baggins."

"Of course," Bilbo grinned in that not-sarcastic way he saved for special occasions, where his eyes warmed and he looked almost bashful. Bofur swallowed thickly, so swallowing the urge to swoon in a very unmanly fashion. Ori shook his head, mutely relieving Bilbo of his yarn. They were ridiculous.

"What can I help you with, Bofur?" Bilbo asked him as they began a stroll through the sparce woods, grass tall against their legs. Said miner couldn't help but notice the way the hobbit's foreign accent glossed over vowels his dwarf tongue hung on to. And how much he enjoyed the difference. "Ah, jus' thought we could have a bit of a break, is all," he shrugged, smiling what he hoped was his usual way. That was a safe excuse; parts of the company broke off for walks all the time. It's tiring even on the most sociable, to be in the constant personal space of twelve others all day, every day. So the burglar nodded. And that was that.

They strolled and chatted amicably, about the day, and what Bombur's children were like, and fishing, and whatever else came up. It was so easy, Bilbo marveled, and actually interesting, to talk with the dwarves- with Bofur. Back home conversation felt stale, and stiff, and everybody knew what would be said before asking. To the head of the Bagginses, it was a chore to be avoided. But out here, as he got to know himself again, he found he was being spoken _with_ about things he cared for, not _to_ about things forgotten immediately, and Bofur's horrid teasing had grown on him. He doubted he'd be able to revert to respectable conversation again. And watching the toymaker laugh at his own joke, Bilbo couldn't imagine needing to.

Bofur, if truth be told, had utterly lost track of why he'd brought Bilbo out in the first place. He'd been so uncharacteristically anxious, the relief of Bilbo's company pushed all concerns of the destiny-rock from his mind. So they walked and talked until one suggested they not stray too far, and they stood in place and talked, then sat to get comfortable, and continued this way with no mind of the time. They pulled out their pipes for a smoke, the hobbit patiently tried teaching him to blow smoke rings, and they gestured widely and laughed and told stories of their people and childhoods and legends. The moon drifted across her sky, heedless. The dwarf was impressed but- he assured with a grin- not surprised at Bilbo's tales of the Bullroarer, and Isengar gone to sea, and how they were all related to him. Bilbo learned of Durin, and the Seven Fathers, and that Bofur guarded deep dwarf secrets with a looser tongue than most.

He didn't realize it was just for him.

But Bofur couldn't help it- he wanted to share everything with Bilbo, and he wanted to try to communicate and understand and make this inter-species thing work. He wanted to learn, and he wanted his One to know about his people, their ways- like the… like the rock.

"Bofur, are you quite well? You suddenly look pale."

"A-aye, quite alright. Hm," he clears his throat gruffly, and glanced up- the sky was turning that grey pre-dawn, and he felt a genuine sense of hope. If Bilbo had stayed with him this long, surely for life wouldn't be much more to ask. He looked down again to see the hobbit smiling at him, careless of the sleep lost, teeth wide and white in the growing light. It was here he slid a hand into his pocket, drawing the wee stone with it and holding it, feeling that familiar weight. It was small, and seemed so bland and average at first... but it had become radiant, special, and very dear to him indeed. He shakily took Bilbo's hand in his, placing the sunny egg there, and cradling the naked, small palm with both his rough hands, all scarred and gloved. His breath was fast, but his mind a serene calm, watching Bilbo.

"It's a lovely rock," the hobbit said carefully, looking at it, keeping his face neutral. What the hell was this? Bofur was holding his hand like he had just placed a baby bunny in it. He watched Bilbo still, eyes flickering anxiety. Mr. Baggins glanced up at him, then back. There was a heavily pregnant pause. "Is it, for me?" He asked just as gingerly. He didn't want to assume, but this was a lot of pomp and circumstance for anything Bofur.

"Aye, if you wish it to be." The dwarf's voice was unusually quiet and it made Bilbo nervous.

"Is it your birthday?"

"My.. birthday?" The dwarf did a quick, deliberate mental translate of the word to Khuzdul, making sure he got that right. "No, I- what would my birthday have to do with giving you a stone?" His eyes widened and he gasped in horror, "Is that what hobbits do on their birthdays?"

"We- I- I don't, it's not?"

"Wh-"

"I jus-"

"If you don't-"

"I, I can-"

"But-"

"No, it's, I-"

Bilbo held up his free hand, eyes squeezed shut, "Stop! Stop! Let's just, let's just, stop." He took a deep breath, and looked at Bofur- really looked at him, and if Bilbo didn't know better, he'd say there was heartbreak in his eyes.

"I don't understand," he finally admitted, feeling his stomach drop to his toes. What could he possibly have done to make sweet Bofur feel that way?

"I don't suppose you've, heard of courting stones before?" The miner offered gently, a flicker of hope sparking. Bilbo shook his shaggy head, smiling in relief. "I'm afraid not. How does one court with stones?"

"Rocks are very important to Dwarrows. They pick a special one out for their intended and make it all pretty."

"'Pretty'?" Now that was a word Bilbo hadn't expected to hear from him.

"Aye, we polish it. It doesn't sound like much, but…" He struggled to find words to explain the ritual of the rocks. It was like explaining left, or being thirsty. "This rock is everythin' important to a dwarf," He began as he looked to Bilbo's now wide eyes, drawing them from the rock to his. "'Tis th' work of his 'ands, an' it's stable, and beauty from th' earth. A dwarf's heart is stone you know, made hot or cold by the world." Bofur laughed a little, feeling his fear drain away as he spoke. "When-a he finds someone he.. he wants to give his heart to, in his long life, he gives them a stone. The stone is made fer one person alone."

"I see," Bilbo muttered, watching the rock grow brighter as the sky began to blue.

"And should the stone be accepted," Bofur smiled, "The happy couple may court."

"And what is the purpose," Bilbo said slowly, raising his head inquisitively, "Of courting?"

If Gandalf had swung in at this moment, on a vine of grapes, to announce they'd all wear dresses and cartwheel into the Anduin river, Bofur would have been less flustered."Wha- what?" He fumbled. This was not going smoothly _at all_.

"Why do dwarves court?" Mr. Baggins repeated evenly, stone still in open hand, hand still in both of Bofur's.

"To.. to fall in love," the toymaker was stumbling now, blushing and confused. "And get married, and.. and be together."

"What if they already are?"

"Already are what?"

"What if I already have fallen in love with you?"

That brought them both up short.

"What." It was more of a croak than a word. Bofur was flat lining. Eloquence was gone. Help! _Help!_ Bring in the wine! He tried to make a noise but all that came out was a little, "Ehhgh."

"I," Bilbo took a steadying breath. "Love you, Bofur. Quite much. With resolution, as it were."

Bofur was silent.

"I don't-" Bilbo looked helplessly to the stone in his (still) outstretched hand, then to the dwarf, "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to-"

And Bofur was scooping him up, squeezing him, whirling him around, laughing like a loon. He was babbling gibberish about Ones, and forever and ever, and tumbling Dwarvish words and he stood and clung Bilbo close to him, either laughing or sobbing. "So I accept the rock," Bilbo smirked into his neck, clutching the gift in his hand through it all, "But I'm rather unsure if-"

"Bilbo Baggins," Bofur laughed, bumping their foreheads together and staying there, "Ye cheeky firebrand, I love you with everything I am. For always."

"Well then I don't know about dwarves, but my folk kiss to seal the bargain."

"'Well then' we best be honoring that." Bilbo closed his eyes and puckered his lips expectantly, but as Bofur leaned in, the small stone was slowly lifted in between their mouths so they both met rock. Bofur pulled back with a small start, but Bilbo held the stone to his mouth and smooched it chastely, grinning with his eyes closed. "It's your heart, isn't it?" He cracked an eye open to look at Bofur's delighted expression. A jester for the jester.

"I suppose it is, but, I've been hoping to kiss that mouth o' yours since I laid eyes on you, from down on your little carpet!" Bilbo gasped at this forwardness.

Thus as the dawn peaked over the land, and the dwarves of the Company were stirring, watchman Ori smirked at them as they strolled into camp hand-in-hand.

_fin_


End file.
